


We've Got Problems

by astxrwar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Spanking, if i'm being honest, lmao just throwing it out there, the reader is a bit of a brat, there are literally only two characters fml
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6011806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader is a brat. Han has no idea what "dealing with things responsibly" means. Trouble ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Got Problems

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Ok this is filthy and shameless but hear me out– Reader x Han solo where the reader is a snotty teenager, sort of like luke in ANH? so Han Solo is having none of her entitled shit and one day she just pushes too far and he says, ““Don’t take that tone with me, kid, I’ve got half the mind to turn you over my knee and spank the spoiled hell out of you!” and t h e n she’s like "oh SHIT” because f u ck that’s actually really hot??? ok I told you it was filthy don’t judge ok ok
> 
> tumblr: astxrwar.tumblr.com, check me out bc i'm rad

To be fair, the fight isn’t entirely your fault.

It’s not entirely _Han’s_ fault, either, not if you’re being honest. It’s just—a lot of little things, all piled on top of another—you complain maybe a little too much about being downgraded from a diplomatic escort cruiser to his trashy cargo freight and he calls you “your highness” in the most mocking, simpering tone he can muster and he snickers rudely when you refuse to sleep in the spare bunk bed, sneers, _what, that not good enough for you, princess?_  and he makes a hundred and one scornful jokes about how _young_ and _pampered_ and _spoiled_ you are, and neither of you even had the best handle on your tempers to begin with for wildly different reasons, so—

It’s _unavoidable,_ really.

“—never _listen,_ ” Han is saying, stalking closer; his voice is low, and you can sense the effort it’s taking to keep it that way. “I tell you to do something, _you do it,_ got it, kid? That’s just how it’s gonna be—“

You prop your hand on your hip and point a furious finger at him. “I don’t _have_ to do anything,” you burst out, interrupting him, “Give me _one good reason_ why I should even _bother_ listening to you—“

He scoffs. “‘Cause I’m the _captain,_ and this is _my ship_ , and that means you’re gonna do what I say,” he responds, and the set of his jaw is tense and hard and his hands are curling into loose fists at his sides and you don’t think you’ve ever actually seen him look so _irritated,_ and that’s distracting enough that you don’t tell yourself you’re being stupid when you take a step forward.

“Well, I don’t want to,” you say, hands on your hips, distantly aware that you sound petulant and rude and probably more than a little childish.

His nostrils flare and a muscle in his jaw twitches and suddenly you realize that you may have taken it a little too far. “Don’t take that tone with me, kid, I’ve already got half the mind to turn you over my knee and spank the spoiled hell out of you,” he barks, scowling.

You freeze.

Han’s expression doesn’t falter.

“You wouldn’t,” you say, indignant.

“Oh, yes I would,” he retorts, meeting your eyes with an unspoken challenge. “You sure could use it, too!”

You fold your arms over your chest defensively, and maybe you’re imagining the way the air has changed, become hot and still and _heavy,_ pressing in on you from all sides. But what hasn’t changed is that you are still very, _very_ stubborn, you don’t back down and you don’t give in and you don’t _stop,_ even when you probably should.

“Yeah, well, screw you!” you snap.

There is a long, drawn out silence.

And his jaw ticks and his shoulders set and he says angrily, “Fine, kid, if you wanna be like that,” and then—

Han leans forward and he throws you over his shoulder with scarily little effort and you’re just—confused, for a second, and then you’re squirming and telling him angrily to put you down and his fingers are digging into your waist as he sits down on the cabin bench and puts you down over his lap.

“Hey—Hey! I’m not a—a _kid,”_ you say, “you can’t just—“

“Well, you’re acting like one,” he retorts, pinning your wrists behind your back with one hand, “And I sure as hell know how to—“

“How to _what?”_ you snap, speaking over him, “How to be an—an arrogant, big-headed—“

“—how to _deal with you,”_ he says; he yanks down your skirt, hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, tugs those down to your thighs— “and I don’t damn well care if you like it or not, _princess,_ I shoulda done this a long time ago—you—you stuck-up, obnoxious, _spoiled—“_

“—stupid, overconfident, idiotic—“

“—pampered, entitled _—“_

“—Bastard!” you finish angrily.

“—Brat!” he says at the same time.

There is a second of strained silence that stretches—

And then it splits, and it tears, and it shatters, and Han’s hand comes down on the curve of your ass with a resounding _smack._

You bite down on your bottom lip and choke off a gasp; your breathing falters and you have the vague realization that you’re out of your depth in a _big_ way. “Okay!” you gasp, squirming, “Okay, okay—All right, you don’t have to—I didn’t think you would—I’m sorry,” you stutter, a brilliant burning flush climbing up your neck, flooding your cheeks with prepossessing, suffocating _heat—_ “I’m _sorry_.”

There are a few seconds of taut, strained silence.

“I apologized. You can let me go now.”

Han hesitates for a moment, and then he says in a lower voice, “No.”

You blink, and then start to squirm, indignant. “ _What?_ You can’t—that’s not fair!”

“You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place, kid— this is the only way to get things through your pretty little head, ” Han retorts, voice sharp, curt—and confident, always so fucking confident—as he tightens his hold on your wrists, and maybe later—much later— you would remember to be embarrassed about how his hand still hadn’t moved from your upper thigh, calloused and rough and _hot_ against your bare skin, and you would call him out on it, you’d say something cutting and ruthless and scathing and you would _not_ whine and struggle against his grip as he tilts you further over his lap until you’ve lost what little leverage you had.

“Let me go!” you say.

“Look, princess, the sooner you shut up, the sooner this’ll be over and done with, all right?” he replies, his voice slightly softer.

A moment passes. And then two.

Reluctantly, you stop struggling, and your face burns with shame. “Okay,” you say, “ _Fine_.”

Han clears his throat. “Good.”

And it—

It’s _off._

Something about how he says it is _off,_ his voice is uncharacteristically uncertain, and something has _changed,_ something that makes you a little uncomfortable and hyper-aware of everything and completely unable to stop yourself from gasping when his palm comes down hard against the sensitive part of your upper thigh and maybe this isn’t the standard reaction you’re supposed to be having to being turned over your mentor’s knee and _spanked_ like an errant child but this is _Han,_ so it’s _different,_ and you realize somewhat wildly that maybe you’d kind of been suppressing the details of your attraction towards him since the moment you traded awful first impressions, but—

_This—_

“I’ll stop at twenty. Start counting, kid, c’mon, I haven’t got all day,” Han demands, but his voice is still unsteady, uncertain, it gives him away and you want to laugh at that, you want to take advantage of it and taunt him for the microscopic crack in his composure—

You hesitate.

“One,” you say, very, _very_ quietly.

And Han—

He clears his throat, swallows audibly, mumbles a curse under his breath—

_Smack._

“Two,” you mumble.

The jarring impact of his palm against your backside is just shy of painful, and it _stings,_ it prickles, his hands warm and calloused and _familiar_ against your bare skin.

“Three.”

_God._

And it just—

It goes, and it goes, and it keeps on going until it starts to _hurt,_ until your skin feels inflamed, something that should be unpleasant, that would be with anyone else, but this is _Han_ and as he shifts his body and brings the flat of his hand down particularly hard – _thirteen_ —you can’t help the gasp that rises from the top of your throat, you can’t stop yourself from shuddering or lurching forward or digging your nails into your palms–

_Smack._

“Fourteen.”

You bite your lip, already raw and red and swollen—there’s a faint sheen of sweat that had settled over your skin and your face is burning with shame and embarrassment and _want_ , which, yeah, is a pretty accurate assessment of the situation.

Han brings his hand down again and the impact and the sting and the _burn_ of the flat of his palm against your skin makes you shudder and rock forward and you can’t help the desperate semi- embarrassing keen that rises from the top of your throat.

Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s the angle, maybe it’s just that he couldn’t stop himself or he didn’t want to stop himself or maybe it’s a hundred thousand different things, none of which matter in the least, but then—

Ham makes a nearly imperceptible sound deep in the back of his throat that can’t be passed off as really anything other than explicitly, _painfully_ sexual, and then he says your _name,_ and there’s something unsettling about it, the jarring collection of choked out syllables, and it makes you stop, it makes you freeze—

He shifts, just a little, and suddenly you can feel the outline of his cock half-hard and pressing up against your stomach through his jeans.

Oh.

_Oh._

“Fuck,” He mumbles softly. “ _Fuck_.”

The silence is tense, rough, as if the entire situation is waiting to explode, to break off into shattered, unrecognizable pieces, a bomb ticking down to your inevitable self-destruction.

Except—

You don’t mention it.

“Fifteen,” you say instead.

“Yeah,” Han manages to answer, his voice gritty, hoarse, “Yeah.”

And then—

He trails a feather-light fingertip down the notches of your spine and you inhale sharply; he smells like firewood and engine fuel and rich, warm spices and it’s _familiar_ and _grounding,_ and you register your heartbeat skipping faster as he runs his hands down over the backs of your legs, smacks your ass lightly and mumbles a half-choked curse when you whine and wriggle in response.

“Sixteen,” you say softly.

His hands are rubbing over your skin in slow, steady circles, fingers dipping down between your thighs—hesitant, almost, but not fucking close enough, and then he brings the flat of his palm down painfully fucking hard against your backside and it prickles and it burns and it wrings a helpless, hapless gasp from your chest as his fingers move closer, closer—

“Seventeen—”

The callouses on his palm are rough against your skin and the insistent thud of your heartbeat is catastrophically loud in your ears, the impact of his hand against your skin _hot_ and nearly painful, an uncomfortable reminder that this is _real,_ this is _happening—_

“Eighteen—“

Han’s fingers inch lower— _there there right there yes please—_ his palm smoothing down the inside of your thighs and then he rubs a gentle, feather-light circle around your clit and you _shudder,_ you do, because every inch of your skin feels inflamed, unstable, as he smacks the flat of his palm against your skin—

“Nineteen,” you breathe.

He exhales—

He brings his hand down again.

“Twenty,” you say shakily.

There is a long, tense, heavy pause—

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Han breathes. His hand loosens around your wrists.

You stand up.

You stare at each other for a long, _long_ time—your skirt is still discarded on the floor and there is a dull pink flush creeping up Han’s face and the silence is tense and still and then he takes a step forward and your breathing falters and his pupils dilate, expand, eclipse his warm warm _warm_ brown eyes, and the air seems heavy with months of unspoken tension and you can’t even begin to comprehend what you _know_ is going to happen—

Han mumbles a curse under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” he says, and then he’s lowering his head and you’re tilting yours up and—

You’re kissing him before you even realize that you want to.

And then your hands are fumbling with his jacket, pushing it off of his shoulders, he’s reaching behind his back and pulling his shirt up over his head with one hand and mumbling something about _wanted to do this since the day we met, thought about it all the fucking time,_ and then he’s cupping your face in his palms and he’s kissing you again, _hard,_ you’re tipping your head back and his fingers are dragging through your hair, digging into your skull, holding you in place, and he tastes _bitter,_ tangy, familiar and right and it’s simultaneously _everything_ and _nothing_ like you expected it would be—

“Han,” you gasp briefly, as his mouth moves down to the column of your throat, teeth latching on to your collarbone, sucking a bruise into your skin as your nails rake down his abdomen and over the front of his jeans. He jerks forward, into your hand, he’s groaning into your mouth and it’s echoing around the hull of the ship cabin and every single rational thought about how you probably shouldn’t be rushing into things like _this_ with somebody like _him_ vanishes, dissipates, as he struggles with the fastenings to his belt, shoves his pants down to his knees and kicks them off, his cock a hard, thick line beneath his boxers.

And—

Yeah, okay, maybe you stare a _little,_ but—

“Like what you see?” Han murmurs, grinning, his voice low and raspy against your ear and you completely intend to make a snarky comment in response but then he’s pushing his boxers down and moving back to sit on the cabin bench and pulling you into his lap, and you basically forget everything except the warmth of his bare skin and the feeling of his hands gliding over your ribs and your waist and your hips, teasing, testing, not making contact but _close,_ so close, and you are suddenly hyperaware of every inch of your body and every inch of his, where they aren’t touching and where they _should_ be touching—

You push yourself up on your knees, hands clutching his shoulders, and then the head of his cock brushes your clit and his grip tightens, fingernails digging into your skin, and when he finally moves, when he finally pushes his hips _up—_

“ _Oh_ ,” you gasp.

Han goes still, his breathing falters and his eyelashes flutter and his head tips back with a quiet groan and a muffled curse— _fuck, feel so good, princess, knew you would—_ and the following moment of silence, of stillness, is strangely intimate, his breathing harsh but steady against your neck as he tries—fails—to hold on to any last remaining strands of his decorum.

But then—

You roll your hips and Han pushes up and the resulting friction is fucking _perfect,_ the pressure against your clit and his mouth against your neck, teeth nipping, tugging, latching onto your pulse, and then he drives his hips up and the dull sound of his skin hitting yours is loud, abrasive, _filthy_ in the silence of the cabin—

“Oh, _fuck—_ yeah, that’s it, sweetheart, like that,“ Han breathes, his voice scratchy and heavy and low, “Tell me—tell me how fuckin’ good this is for you, c’mon—“

He rocks up, forwards, and the angle is perfect and the insistent, dragging friction against your clit is perfect and the way he’s looking at you is especially fucking perfect, his eyes are clear and bright and _warm_ and you get the feeling that maybe this isn’t the first time he’s looked at you like that, maybe you just never noticed before—

“I—you feel— _Han,”_ you manage, stumbling over your words, leaning forwards and digging your fingers into his broad _broad_ shoulders and using him as leverage to keep going, to keep moving, up—down— and his cock is brushing against something absolutely fucking _wonderful_ inside of you, you’re rocking backwards and then forwards and registering your toes curling and your muscles locking, tensing, _quivering—_

Han’s hands move from your waist down to your ass and he’s pulling you in closer, until his chest is pressed up against your own, his skin hot and slick with sweat and his mouth pressed to your neck, words slurring against your skin— _wanted to watch you ride me like this for so fuckin’ long, c’mon, princess, keep going, just like that—_ and then he makes a sound, a low-pitched groan that vibrates through your skin and the muscles in his back tense, tighten, and when he speaks again he sounds _wrecked._

“Fuck— _Fuck,_ I’m not gonna last,” Han grits out, and then you’re grinding down and he’s pushing up and it’s so fucking _perfect,_ the slow roll of his hips and his fingers digging into your skin and his stubble scraping across your cheek when you kiss him, the way you shiver and _moan_ into his mouth when he trails his unsteady fingers down the notches of your spine, pressing his palm to the small of your back—

“I’m going to—Han— _oh—“_ you manage, a little desperate and a little frantic as you rock your hips into him, and he’s hitting that spot that you’d half believed had to be imaginary and it’s making your entire body feel inflamed, unstable, and you can feel it, the oncoming pulse of electricity in the pit of your stomach, building and building and building, and this isn’t messy chaotic fumbling of a first time, no, this is something faster and harder and _better—_

And—

“ _Han_!” you cry out.

He runs his hands over your skin, mumbles a curse under his breath and stares  like he can’t quite believe that this is _real_ and this is _happening—fuck princess so fucking beautiful when you come—_ and he hasn’t stopped moving, no, harder and faster and deeper, guiding you as you tremble with aftershocks— _just like that fuck I’m so close—_ and then his muscles tense, his hips stutter, fall out of rhythm—

“ _Fuck_!” Han groans, and you instinctively lean forwards, lean into him, as he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long time.

And then—

Han clears his throat.

You trace your hand up his chest, to his neck, cup his face in your palms. You kiss him on instinct.

And you wonder if maybe, _maybe,_ you shouldn’t have, but—

It doesn’t matter.

He’s already kissing you back.


End file.
